


gold hair and lightning

by u_andcloud



Category: Ao no Exorcist | Blue Exorcist
Genre: M/M, Sharing a Bed, Sort Of, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:01:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29904252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/u_andcloud/pseuds/u_andcloud
Summary: A mission goes slightly awry. Arthur and Lewin are stranded at an inn for the night.
Relationships: Arthur Auguste Angel/Lewin Light
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	gold hair and lightning

**Author's Note:**

> I love Blue Exorcist dearly but I rarely have any ideas for writing about it--thankfully Kato keeps making these two more and more interesting to me. This takes place pre-manga but definitely references some of the things we've learned about Arthur recently.
> 
> There are only seven fics in this tag so I can post whatever tropes I want >:) These thirty-something-year-olds are gonna get stuck with one bed and there's nothing they can do about it.
> 
> (Title comes from The Lightning Strike by Snow Patrol.)

Arthur was in a foul mood.

For many reasons, Lewin was relieved that their current predicament was his partner’s fault alone. Arthur had been a little too enthusiastic in his _smiting_ , and the magic key that would have taken them swiftly back to the Vatican when their mission was complete had been…well, incinerated, sublimated along with the Yeti that had been terrorizing the small Swedish town in which they found themselves.

And now they were stuck here until someone from the Vatican came to retrieve them. It wouldn’t be long—the Knights wouldn’t let the leader of their Angelic Legion stew in some backwater—but it meant one night at a local inn.

“If it can even be _called_ an inn,” Arthur was complaining. “One room! One _bed!_ This is little more than a room for rent!”

“Hey, I think it’s cozy,” Lewin countered. He had already pointed out that the bed wasn’t a problem, as he could fall asleep on nearly any surface, but Arthur was freshly back from his shower and seemingly intent on reiterating his list of grievances, with several additional woes related to the state of the bathroom.

Arthur, Lewin noticed, was using both of their provided towels (probably assuming Lewin wouldn’t need them), one for his hair, and one wrapped around his waist. He had come into the room mid-tirade, still sparkling with water droplets and flushed from the warmth of the shower, and Lewin didn’t bother being surreptitious as he let his eyes wander. Very few people had the privilege of seeing Angel like this—although Lewin was sure no small number of exorcists, male and female alike, would refuse the chance—and Lewin was going to appreciate the opportunity, despite the less-than-ideal circumstances. Even if Arthur hadn’t been halfway through a rant, it was unlikely he would have noticed the extra attention.

“—and I have _nothing_ to wear,” Arthur finished with an exasperated huff. Lewin glanced at Arthur’s usual ensemble, which was hanging to dry over the radiator. It had been thoroughly drenched in the battle, although the effort of salvaging it was likely futile, as Arthur would no doubt have the entire outfit replaced once they were back in the vicinity of his tailor.

The irritated sigh was apparently Lewin’s cue to jump in with a helpful suggestion, so he abandoned his contemplations of the ripple of Arthur’s abs and offered, “You could wear my clothes.”

Arthur’s nose was already wrinkling. “Don’t make me think about it.”

“In that case, maybe these’ll do.” Lewin produced a neatly folded stack of clean clothes and held them out. During Arthur’s shower, he had taken some uncharacteristic initiative to wander downstairs and inquire of their host if she had any spare clothes. It wasn’t exactly difficult to anticipate Arthur’s demands, after all.

Arthur eyed the offering with a look that suggested he viewed it as only a minor improvement over Lewin’s original suggestion, but he snatched the t-shirt and sweatpants anyway before retreating again to the bathroom.

He was gone for an additional fifteen minutes. Lewin wasn’t surprised.

When he returned, more dressed-down than probably anyone had ever seen him, Lewin let himself stare again. Arthur had freed his hair from the confines of the towel, and the damp locks spilled over his shoulders, leaving wet spots on the t-shirt. The shirt itself was a little too small, stretching tight across his chest, and Arthur was tugging at the collar like the cheap cotton was personally offending him, but he had apparently decided this was not worth voicing an additional complaint.

“You’re uneven,” he noted suddenly, when Arthur crossed the room to check on the state of his uniform. As practiced as Arthur was with his sacrifices to Caliburn, it was difficult to make a straight cut in the heat of battle, and this last encounter had left him with a sizeable segment of hair that ended just around his shoulder blades, while the rest fell to his lower back.

Arthur craned his neck over his shoulder as though he would be able to see. “Can’t be helped, I suppose.”

“Want me to trim it?”

Lewin wasn’t sure why he offered, except that maybe he was a little bored, and chances to touch Arthur’s hair were few and far between. Arthur ran his hands through the strands, frowning a little as the shorter sections slipped through his fingers. “We don’t have scissors.”

“First aid kit,” Lewin reminded him. They hadn’t been _entirely_ unprepared. “Unless you think Caliburn would be angry.”

Arthur glanced at the sword, leaning sheathed against the wall. “It grows back.”

Remarkably quickly, too. Taking this as permission, Lewin dug the scissors out of the first aid kit. They were meant for cutting bandages, so the blades were short and not particularly sharp, but Lewin thought he could make it work.

“Sit,” he ordered, taking a wooden chair from beside the window and moving it into the middle of the room. Arthur settled into it obediently, and Lewin tilted his head, deciding on a plan of attack.

(He wondered, briefly, if he could just call a few sylphs to shear off the uneven locks, but he knew Arthur would object strongly—and perhaps with force—to that method, so he decided he would have to settle for scissors, if only for the sake of keeping their room intact.)

He threaded his fingers through one of the longer sections, marveling at how Arthur’s hair still shone white-gold despite being damp, and started to trim.

Lewin considered his feelings for Arthur to be largely unfortunate. He had never bothered with relationships (frankly, he had never bothered with _feelings_ ) and he saw no reason to start now, no matter how often Shura accused the two of them of bickering like an old married couple. He was content to be Arthur’s right hand—or his brain, as circumstances required—and it was lucky happenstance if he could also appreciate a few moments like this, with Arthur’s golden hair spilling through his fingers.

He _was_ blinding, just the way Lewin always teased, and it was fascinating, mesmerizing in a way that Lewin suspected was not entirely natural. Sometimes, Lewin wondered if that was _all_ it was, and his innate desire to understand all things demonic (or potentially demonic) was the only thing that drew him to Arthur, but then he remembered that he was inexplicably tolerant of so many of Arthur’s less attractive quirks that made most people unable to stand his company for longer than the length of a meeting or a battle, and regretfully admitted to himself that, against all odds, he actually felt something for his partner that went beyond respect for his abilities or awe of his power.

Sometimes, it was frustrating to realize that he really was human, despite a lifetime of being accused of lacking most of the defining traits.

“Are you finished yet?”

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Lewin frowned down at his handiwork. Arthur’s hair was mostly even now, if a little jagged due to the dullness of the scissors.

“Yep,” he said.

“Thank you.” He turned and glanced Lewin over. “You should bathe.”

“Nah, I got enough of a wash when you doused us in a thousand gallons of snowmelt earlier,” Lewin replied. Arthur’s brow pinched.

“That doesn’t count. And didn’t you get a change of clothes for yourself?”

Lewin shrugged. “My poncho’s pretty waterproof, actually. So’re my boots. And you were gone so long my pants are already dry, see?”

“Then you were _not_ washed when I…” Arthur broke off, then continued in a less triumphant tone, “when I…melted the avalanche.”

 _Melted the avalanche, obliterated the Yeti, and lost our ticket home,_ Lewin added internally.

“Sure I was,” he said out loud. “See, my hair’s still wet.”

“Wet is not _clean,”_ Arthur replied. He stood to sweep up the hair trimmings on the floor and deposited them in the trash—Lewin wondered if the faint high-pitched lament he heard from the sword in the corner of the room was his imagination—then turned to survey the room with a critical glare. “Where will you sleep?”

Lewin shrugged. “You know me. Wherever.”

Arthur looked down. “I would be willing to share the bed. _If_ you bathe.”

Lewin raised an eyebrow, and Arthur pursed his lips, his eyebrows drawing together.

“It’s my fault we’re here,” he said, after a pause.

Lewin raised _both_ eyebrows—self-reflection in Arthur was extremely rare, and him attempting to make amends for his mistakes was even rarer. “You know I sleep on the floor half the time at home, too, right?”

“Well, then,” Arthur said, with a sniff. “Suit yourself.”

He retired to the bed shortly after that, burying himself under the sheets until nothing was visible of him save a few stray locks of hair, and leaving Lewin to stretch out on the thin carpet, hands folded behind his head. He lay there with his eyes closed for a minute, then two, before shifting onto his side, then his _other_ side, then returning to his back, eyes wide open now and staring at the ceiling.

He could fall asleep anywhere—usually.

In the bed, Arthur was already snoring, but it wasn’t the noise that was keeping Lewin awake. It was those goddamn _feelings_ again.

Lewin wasn’t meant for relationships. He didn’t _care_ enough. He was not romantic. And Arthur…Arthur liked everything Lewin wasn’t, things that were elegant, refined—and, well, _women,_ probably, although Lewin had never known him to date. He was the Order’s man, after all—he didn’t have time to entertain such things any more than Lewin did. And honestly, Lewin couldn’t picture it, Arthur settling down with someone, Arthur with a family. He knew the man better than anyone, knew the viciousness that lurked beneath his saintly visage. It was one of the things that almost made Lewin feel a strange flicker of hope, knowing that deep down, they were both ruthless at their cores. It was part of why they worked well together—Lewin was never put off when Arthur showed his true face.

It should have been enough that they were partners; that, despite their vastly differing views on demons, they had found some kind of understanding in each other. That was all someone like Lewin could ever hope for, really—understanding. But there was an irritating part of him that wanted—well, he wasn’t entirely _sure_ what he wanted. Another chance to touch him, maybe, that wasn’t predicated on some flimsy excuse about uneven hair. _Love_ seemed like too strong a word, too sentimental a word. But it was nice to be close to someone who wouldn’t be scared off.

Rubbing his hands down his face, Lewin sighed, frustrated with himself. The fact that the word _love_ had even crossed his mind, even if it didn’t quite fit, was ridiculous, and the fact that it was keeping him awake, even more so. Suddenly too antsy to even lie still, he sat up, as though hoping the motion would shake the thoughts out of his head. No luck—now that he was sitting up, he could see the lump on the bed that was Arthur, sound asleep and probably completely untroubled by anything approaching Lewin’s current conundrum.

Then a draft swept across the room from the window, setting Lewin shivering, and now, all he could think about Arthur was that he looked very _warm._

 _I would be willing to share the bed._ If _you bathe._

Lewin wrinkled his nose—if he _had_ to wash, he preferred baths, where he could at least just lie back in the warm water and pretend that soaking with a little bit of soap counted for something—but the bathroom in the inn only had a shower. It was enough to make him miss his apartment in Japan, which, as small as it was, had a deep, albeit little-used, bathtub. But with each passing second, he grew less and less certain in his conviction that he could fall asleep _anywhere,_ and the persistent draft was making a persuasive argument.

With a heavy sigh, he jumped to his feet and stalked to the bathroom.

The shower was cold—Arthur had no doubt depleted the entire house of hot water. Lewin stayed in for less than five minutes. He wasn’t sure how Arthur had possibly spent the better part of an hour in here, when a bar of soap was all that had been provided to them. Giving himself a cursory scrub and a rinse, Lewin hopped out of the icy stream and patted himself dry with a spare hand towel before pulling his t-shirt and boxers back on. The t-shirt, if not _clean,_ at least didn’t smell too offensive, and the boxers had been fresh as of that morning. It would have to do.

He was back in the room and standing beside the bed before he could wonder what, exactly, he was doing. Waking Arthur up just to demand he move over would not go over well, even if Arthur _had_ offered, earlier, but Lewin could quite bring himself to just slip under the covers, either. He thought about just stealing one of Arthur’s blankets and retreating to the floor again, but then Arthur stirred.

For a moment, Lewin thought he had woken him somehow, just by standing next to the bed and staring like some kind of creep, but Arthur didn’t open his eyes. Instead, he squirmed under the blankets, and a small sound escaped him, almost like a whimper.

 _“W-wait…”_ he rasped, his face screwing up. _“…stop.”_

Lewin had seen Arthur’s face twisted in many expressions—rage, disgust, indignation—but never like this, never in this helpless pain. He was reaching out before he could think about it, shaking Arthur’s shoulder gently but urgently until his eyes cracked open.

“Lewin,” Arthur murmured as his eyes cleared, and Lewin froze. Arthur rarely used his name—it was always “Lightning this” and “Lightning that”—and Lewin wasn’t sure he liked the way it made him feel, hearing his name like that, with Arthur’s voice soft and rough from sleep.

Lewin shook himself.

“You looked like you were having a nightmare,” he explained. His hand was still on Arthur’s shoulder, and he noticed that Arthur was practically radiating heat. _A fever?_

“Was I…?” Arthur yawned and blinked a few times, the haze of sleep fading somewhat.

“Are you feeling okay?” Lewin felt compelled to ask.

“I am feeling like I would like to get back to sleep,” Arthur replied, raising an eyebrow as though surprised by Lewin’s concern. “Are _you_ feeling alright, Lightning?”

It _was_ uncharacteristic of him, he supposed, to be acting so worried, so he withdrew his hand and retreated to the edge of the bed. He had climbed halfway across the mattress to wake Arthur up, although he hadn’t really noticed until now.

But instead of burying himself under the blankets again, Arthur sat up slightly and sniffed.

“Did you…shower?”

Belatedly, Lewin recalled that he’d had a goal to motivate him through the ordeal of bathing. Pressing his lingering concerns to the back of his mind, he lifted the edge of the blankets.

“Yeah,” he said, “and now I’m freezing, so move over.”

Arthur shuffled obligingly to the side, and before he could think about it too much, Lewin settled in beside him. His foot brushed against Arthur’s leg, and Arthur flinched and twisted around to glare at him.

“You’re _frigid.”_

“Yeah, well, _someone_ used all the hot water,” Lewin told him, and Arthur’s scowl faltered.

“Ah.”

“And what’s with you?” Lewin countered. “You’re like a furnace. C’mon, share.”

Arthur blinked at him. He looked so unusually vulnerable like this, with his hair loose around his face, tucked into bed with the quilt pulled up to his chin. Lewin took advantage of his unguardedness to scoot closer.

“What were you dreaming about?” Lewin asked before Arthur could say anything.

“I don’t remember,” Arthur replied. “I usually don’t. Sometimes I wonder…well. They’re just dreams. Of no consequence.”

He spoke as though he was trying to convince himself, the habitual self-assurance in his tone falling a little flat. Lewin, because he had no tact, pressed on.

“Were they memories, do you think? From before the Blue Night?”

Arthur was silent for a moment. Lewin expected a stern reply, something like “why would that matter?” or “don’t be ridiculous,” but when Arthur spoke next, his voice was even quieter.

“They could have been,” he murmured. “How would I know? If my parents…if I saw my parents in a dream, would I even know them?”

Lewin didn’t know what to say to that. The powerless note in Arthur’s voice was almost jarring, and providing comfort was something that was far removed from Lewin’s skillset.

“Well, you’re probably right,” he said. “They’re just dreams.”

Lewin expected Arthur to nod and settle back to sleep with his back to Lewin again, but instead, he turned to face him, his brow creased. “What do you dream of?”

“Me?” Lewin blinked. He was certain there wasn’t an exorcist alive who didn’t have nightmares, so he said as much. “But…sometimes I dream about sylphs. Sorta…flying around with them. Those ones are nice.” He paused. “But maybe not that exciting for you, since you’re always flying around in battle anyway.”

“Mm.” Arthur’s response was sleepy, and Lewin wondered if he had actually been curious, or if he had just wanted to change the subject. His eyelids drooped, blond lashes fluttering against his skin, and Lewin decided to keep talking, softly, about the sylph dreams, until Arthur’s breathing settled into the even rhythm of sleep.

~ ~

When Lewin woke up, he was warm. He shifted a little and found he could barely move—Arthur’s arms were locked around him, clutching him like a child might cling to a stuffed animal. He was snoring softly, drooling a little on the pillow—Lewin stifled a snort to think of what Arthur’s fan club might think of _that—_ and he didn’t look like he would be waking up anytime soon. Knowing that he had no chance of breaking out of Arthur’s hold, Lewin resigned himself to a few more hours in bed, tucking himself closer to Arthur’s chest and breathing in the scent of soap and cologne, underlain by the faintest whiff of ozone.

In a couple hours, Lewin knew that Arthur would probably wake up, complain that Lewin hadn’t washed his hair thoroughly enough, and take another shower. When they returned to the Vatican, everything would be the same as it always had been, except that Arthur would be especially touchy for a few days while his coat was being mended. Lewin would tease him about it—because nobody else would dare to—and then the coat would be returned, Arthur’s hair would grow out again, and nothing would be mentioned of this minor mission ever again.

But whatever _this_ was, the trust that allowed Lewin to see a version of Arthur that no one else saw, it was probably enough for now. He settled back into Arthur’s arms, and when he slept, he dreamed of light and air.

**Author's Note:**

> Listen. Arthur doesn't remember the first 15 years of his life and has been groomed by the Order into being whatever they need him to be, I think he might be a little touch starved even if he will never, ever admit it or even realize it.


End file.
